I'm Not Consigning My Memories

A church up the road has a massive consignment sale twice a year. I've found high quality items for all ages. The prices, however, tend to run from cheap! to You've got to be kidding me!

"I'm not spending $12.00 on a used dress for a one-year-old," I commented to a friend as we were shopping.

She's convinced that baby clothes are over-priced because mothers are really ambivalent about parting with them. We shared a laugh over that thought.

This year I am consigning, rather than just buying. This is my second foray into the wide world of resale. My first attempt netted precisely nuthin'. Not a dime. All I had for my troubles was a run-in with a rather snooty store owner.

The mean part of me was dying to point out that she was running a second hand shop in Augusta, Georgia, not Giorgio Armani on Rodeo Drive. I managed to stifle my oh-so-charitable thoughts and leave my sorry items that clearly never sold.

Up to the attic I went this morning. With John in front of Sesame Street and Ainsley playing in box (she's part Siamese), I had a half hour to pillage through tub after tub of little boys' attire.

I bawled my eyes out.

Forgive me, dear women with over-priced baby items. I understand your ambivalence. I held it together until I spied John's jammies with the baseball bats. Then there were the jammies with the little frogs. And the ones with the space ships.

Tim's microscopic onesie about did me in. This belonging to the kid who now mows the lawn?

Oh, the cliches that run through my head! Where does the time go? Where does it go? In heaven will we be able to instantly and clearly recall the sights, smells, and sounds of those fleeting baby years?

The good ones, I mean.

I hope so. In the meantime, excuse me while I grab some Kleenex and my baby.